


Nothing More Human Than That

by aliceboleyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester-centric, F/M, Gen, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues, This is mostly Dean-centric, my silly little rewriting of Tony Kushner's masterpiece
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 07:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceboleyn/pseuds/aliceboleyn
Summary: 1985 is coming to an end. In the midst of the AIDS crisis and a conservative Reagan administration, Dean Winchester, his closest friends and some unexpected strangers grapple with life and death, love and sex, heaven and hell.-“There’s no death involved in your mission, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was gentle, his blue eyes that proudly sparkled under his long lashes were framed by kind eyebrows, Jimmy’s, and Dean felt a warmth he had grown more and more unfamiliar with those last few months. “You are a prophet.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 1





	Nothing More Human Than That

**Author's Note:**

> My silly little rewriting of Tony Kushner's Angels in America, or "yet another sacrilege", as I like to call it.  
> Please check out the notes at the end before you read this, or don't, you do you my friend. Hope you enjoy :)

_In a murderous time_

_the heart breaks and breaks_

_and lives by breaking._

_\- Stanley Kunitz, "The Testing-Tree"_

* * *

“Miracle still hasn’t come home”

Sam laughed, a lighthearted, cheerful sound.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asked, who was sitting next to his brother on the bench.

“Dude, you name your dog Miracle, you can’t expect her to stick around. She’s probably on a mission on God’s behalf or something.”

“Not sure if you’re in the position to make jokes, considering you’re the one who lost her in the first place.”

“Dean, how many times do we have to go through this? You were there too.”

“Yeah, but it was your idea to let her walk free in the middle of fucking Central Park because _it’s good for the dog_ or whatever.”

“It is good for the dog — Sam mumbled — look, I’m sorry, you know I am. I miss Miracle too. But what’s up with you today, man? You’re in a particularly bad mood.”

“We’ve just been to a service, for starters.” Dean said casually, looking around at the crowd of relatives still chatting outside the church’s door.

“Yeah, of a great-aunt we’d thought dead for ten years before we got invited to the funeral. So what’s the matter with you?”

Dean remained silent for a long time, so long that Sam had already let out the beginning of a resigned sigh when Dean started rolling up his sleeve.

Sam looked confused at first, then stunned.

“What is that?”

Dean couldn’t think of anything to say, so he took a deep breath and then looked away.

“Lesion number one, I guess.”

Sam was trying to remain calm, Dean could see that, but his voice shook when he asked: “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve known for a while.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?” Now Sam sounded angry, no more astonished blinking, he was staring directly at Dean with teary eyes and his jaw clenched.

“Dude relax, it’s not like we drink each other’s blood for breakfast. I even made sure we used different cutlery, you’re safe.”

“Dean it’s not about that, but why —“

“Why now? Well, I figured as long as we’re on the subject of death.”

“Don’t say that.” Sam said a second later, his hands clinging on the bench’s rotten wood.

“It’s true, we should get used to it. _Exorcise the thought of death_ or whatever crap I read on a Mormon leaflet in my doctor’s waiting room last week.”

“Stop saying it.”

“What? Death?”

“Dean.”

“ _Sammy_.”

“We should go.” Sam whispered, defeated.

“What? Where?”

“We still have to bury aunt Margaret.”

“Oh, I’m not coming. There’s only so much estranged-family-time a dying man can take, but you go ahead.”

Sam shook his head as they both got up.

“You’ll be fine?”

Dean suppressed a laugh.

“Sure. You’ll be home for dinner, won’t you?”

“I’ll be home for dinner.” Sam nodded, quickly pressing his palms on his damp eyes.

Dean remained still as he watched Sam walk away.

-

“Do you know the story of Saladin and Melchizedek? – asked Sam as he closed a big dusty book about middle eastern law – The one about the father who loves all of his sons equally, but has to pass on his golden ring to only one of them so, to avoid an inevitable fight between them, he decides to make two exact replicas of the ring and summons each son individually to tell them they are the chosen one and, once the father is dead, the sons realize he hadn’t chosen at all. — I wonder if dad would have done the same, had he been in that position.”

“Dad would have simply chosen his favorite, I’m afraid. Whoever that was.” Dean answered, while he grabbed the controller to turn down the TV volume. He knew Sam’s little speech was only meant to introduce something more personal and, most likely, uncomfortable.

“Dean, I don’t want you to die.”

“Whoa, weren’t we discussing theology?” Yes, Dean knew it, but he still wanted to delay that moment as much as he could.

“Theology?”

“Yeah, Melchizedek told the story of the rings to answer the question regarding which religion, between Muslim, Christian and Jewish, was the best, remember? Or did you fall asleep mid-story, smartass?”

“I don’t think I was dad’s favorite. He wouldn’t want me to outlive you. Especially not now.”

“What do you mean _not now_?“

“Not like this.” Sam said weakly, looking down, almost as if he was regretting his words already.

Dean turned the TV volume back on, struggling to keep his own emotions at bay.

“Dean, come on, I don’t mean —“

“You don’t mean like a deranged homosexual? Because that’s what it sounds like, Sammy. You know I’m not — I mean, that’s not how —“ Dean stumbled halfway through his reply which failed to be fierce and failed to be bold. He was still a coward, after all.

“Whatever. I would never think you were deranged, AIDS or not.”

He said it. Dean couldn’t, he danced around the word, dreaded it when it was on other people’s mouth. He had never really pronounced it aloud, he thought. Saying it would make it oddly real. And yes, his headaches, his aching leg, his blood _were_ real, but not to the rest of the world unless he said it.

“Good. I’m going to bed.” He eventually turned off the TV, his interest in the political debate he was watching far gone.

“I think I’ll fuck up.”

Dean didn’t say anything, but turned around to face his brother.

“I’ll fuck _this_ up. I’ll let you down. — I saw all the pills you have to take and heard you throw up after dinner, even if you turned the radio on. If I walked out on this would you, -- his voice broke – would you hate me forever?”

Dean sighed and answered: “No”, then headed towards his bedroom.

_How could he possibly hate Sam?_

Before he closed the door, Dean heard Sam crying.

-

Dean didn’t remember what it felt like to be free from pain, even his dreams were stained with the horror of disease; it was either in his body or outside of it, leaking from the walls. That dream, however, was different. He could get up from the sofa and reach the mirror without having to bite his lips not to scream while he did that, pain was simply not there.

His face, though, was not what it used to be a few months back: he had grown thinner, paler, weaker. Most times he didn’t care, all in all, he was still rather handsome for a dying man. But in the dream, he was disgusted by his reflection, not in the usual self-loathing charged kind of way, though. It was the state of his body that made him stare in horror, as if the mirror was able to catch something his mind couldn’t. So he opened the third drawer of the wardrobe the mirror was set on and underneath a pile of white t-shirts he grabbed a red lipstick. Dean resorted to lipstick only when he was so sick of his face that the only way to navigate through this phase was to provide some sort of alteration to it, so it was either bruises or lipstick. Generally, he settled for lipstick.

“Dear, why am I astral projecting here? Who are you?” Dean looked behind him, a man around his age was standing a few feet away.

“Who are you?”

“This is – this is not where I was headed.” As he walked closer, Dean could have a better look of the man in front of him. He talked with a British accent he couldn’t quite place and was almost a head shorter than him.

“You’re in _my_ dream. I’m dreaming you. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, no, no. – the man shook his head, looking around – There must be some mistake here. I don’t recognize you, nor this place. Do you happen to be a demon? God, I hope not.”

“A demon? Why would I be a demon?”

“Right. Besides, I don’t know many demons who wear lipstick. Wouldn’t mind if they did.”

“You know demons? Man, who are you?”

“My name’s Crowley.” And Dean didn’t fail to notice how the man straightened his back, in an attempt to look solemn.

“ _Crowley?_ What is this, your stage name?”

“Sort of. I go by that. I don’t go by the name my mother gave me anymore. Although, of course, she has no respect for my choice.”

Dean nodded, “Ouch, I smell a complicated relationship.”

“You could say that.”

“Parents’ shackles, those things take more than a new name to break free from them.”

“Did it work for you?”

“Not at all.” Dean laughed, secretly glad for the distraction Crowley was providing him.

“This is the most depressing astral projection I’ve ever had.”

“Apologies. I used to be more amusing.”

“Oh, well, don’t apologize, you… I can’t expect someone who is really sick to entertain me.”

Dean felt his heart shriek inside his ribcage.

“How on earth do you know?”

“Threshold of revelation. This happens sometimes when my soul leaves my body. I can see things, like how sick you are. Do you see anything about me?”

Dean hesitated, words crowding on his tongue, thoughts he didn’t recall passing through his brain, now suddenly coming out of his mouth.

“You are amazingly unhappy.”

Crowley laughed bitterly, “Oh big deal. You meet a lonely, average-looking, soon-to-be-bald, thirty year old man who still lives with his hateful mother and you figure out he’s unhappy. That doesn’t count, dear. Try something else, something surprising.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Your friend Meg. Your mother has been fucking her for the last year.”

Crowley remained silent for a while, staring at something behind Dean, before he said: “That’s ridiculous. – but then he whispered, -- Really?”

Dean simply shrugged as he headed back to the sofa, his body suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness once again.

“Oh, come on! Living with me, working with me, serving me her disgusting Scottish dinners every night wasn’t enough. No, that evil hag wasn’t satisfied. She had to _seduce_ one of the only friends I have with her deceiving little tricks.”

“I’m sorry, man. It just… I just looked at you, and there was…”

“A sort of blue streak of recognition.” Crowley suggested.

“Yes.”

“Well, I have to go now. Whatever this was, it’s starting to fade. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Dean tried to get back on his feet to bid farewell to that surreal stranger, but as he did that his head started spinning so violently that he felt his stomach tightening.

“Alright, then. I usually say _Fuck the truth_ , but mostly the truth fucks you, so.”

Crowley nodded, a half-smile on his pale lips. As he almost disappeared from Dean’s sight, however, he stopped and turned around.

“I see something else about you. Deep inside you, there’s a part of you, the most inner part, entirely free of disease. I can see that.”

“That’s – that isn’t true.” He said, through gritted teeth.

“Threshold of revelation.”

And as quickly as he had appeared, Crowley was gone, leaving Dean with a new, striking, sense of loneliness.

“Fuck that. There’s not a single part of me that’s uninfected. My heart is pumping polluted blood. I feel dirty.”

He tried to close his eyes, hoping to ground himself and reemerge from whatever hallucination he was having. Instead, he felt a small, delicate, weight land on his lap, and once he opened back his eyes he noticed a black feather had fallen from the ceiling.

“Look up!” a strong, musical voice mutilated the silence.

“Hello?”

“ _Look up!”_

“Who is that?”

“I shall come to you on behalf of Heaven’s gracious command. I shall land on this disgraceful Earth our Father has created and forsaken. I shall bring my incandescent glow and help you, our Prophet, on the way to our salvation. Look up!”

“Hello? What the hell is this?”

But no answer came, the voice’s echo slowly fading from the walls. Dean put a shaking hand on his eyes, trying his hardest not to break in tears, sure his body wasn’t strong enough to endure the harshness of his sobs.

-

It was a cold December night and, for once, Dean hated the silence their apartment was drown in. He had left his bedroom to reach the bathroom but halfway through the hallway he had given up on the idea and now he was on the floor, struggling not to lose consciousness. He didn’t want to wake Sam up, but he really needed to cough, eventually he subsided to it and couldn’t stop.

“Dean? - Dean, are you alright?”

“S-Sam” He choked.

Sam ran in, sleep far gone from his face.

“Oh God, what’s happening to you?”

“I - can’t breathe.” Dean managed to say.

Sam kneeled by his side and placed a cold hand on Dean’s burning forehead as he shivered.

“You must have a really high fever. I should call an ambulance.”

“NO! — Dean yelled, somehow — No, Sammy, please don’t call anyone.” A series of coughs held him from continuing and once they stopped, Sam was already by the phone next to the entrance.

“Listen, maybe it’s just a panic attack.” Dean suggested, when Sam came back, but, in truth, he could tell the difference distinctively well: his lungs didn’t just feel tight, they seemed full, bloody.

The next coughs left his throat burnt, there was blood in his mouth and on his hands and Sam saw it.

“You’re coughing blood, this is bad.”

_No shit_ , Dean thought.

“Just give me a second, I’ll be alright.”

Sam wasn’t answering, back to the phone, his shaking hands were already dialing the number.

“Sammy, if they take me, I won’t be coming back.” Dean felt tears creeping in and if he didn’t know better, he would think he was about to have a panic attack too.

Sam stared at him, regret in his eyes, then he walked inside the kitchen, as much as a the wire allowed him to.

Dean tried to stand up, and as he did that, the blood on his hands stained the wall and his sight went blurry, then black.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered as he collapses to the floor.

Sam found Dean lying down, unconscious.

“No, no, no — stay with me, Dean. What am I gonna tell them? God, what am I gonna tell them, you son of a bitch?”

-

Sam was standing next to Dean’s hospital bed, his legs tired from walking around the room for hours, when Dean’s nurse, his name was Jimmy, got inside:

“How is he?”

“He’s got a pretty bad pneumonia, I’m afraid.”

“You said you are his —?”

“Brother.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” The man smiled.

“What’s nice?” Sam was distracted, couldn’t focus on anything as his mind was running in circles.

“Not many of the young men who come in here have their family’s support. It’s a cruel world out there, you see, can’t wrap my head around how someone could abandon their son or brother in a time like this.”

Sam was brought back to reality.

“It’s very hard to see someone you love withering away, though.”

“You’re sweet, but I think it’s a different kind of feeling holding them back. You don’t see many people with cancer dying alone or without their family’s support. It’s disgraceful how God is often used as an excuse to turn back on your own flesh and blood, as if He would do the same.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded. He knew the nurse was right, for most people, at least. However, what was consuming him had nothing to do with Dean sleeping with men, nothing he hadn’t known for years already and that was never spoken about only because Dean would change the subject whenever Sam tried to bring it up. Dean had been a father, a brother and a mother for him for as long as Sam had memory, ever since Mary, their mom, had died and their dad had had to take on two jobs, travelling all the time, leaving Sam and Dean alone in their apartment as soon as Dean had become able to feed and wash Sam. So in that hospital bed Sam saw his whole family, condensed in one weak, dying, body, quickly fading away before his eyes and he wanted to be anywhere but there to witness it.

“Will he sleep through the night?”

“At least.”

“Then I’m going. I’m sorry, I guess I’ll be back.”

“But it’s 3 AM, where is it you have to go to?” Jimmy seemed confused, then disappointment surfaced on his face, as he perhaps realized what Sam was about to do.

“I know, I need some air — and some sleep, too. Sorry, please, tell him I’m so sorry.” And then he picked up his jacket from a chair near Dean’s bed, but didn’t look at him, he couldn’t. If he did look at his face, stuck with tubes and white as his bedsheets, he would have died too. He didn’t look at Jimmy either, or his disappointment would wake him up from the state of detached confusion he had made himself slip into, similar to what he used to do as kid while his father beat Dean up. Trying to get to the maximum level of numbness he could reach, hoping it would shield him from getting hurt.

-

Dean woke up to voices he couldn’t quite make out. His eyes were burning, he could feel it even if they were still closed. He assumed it was a new nurse, coming to check why he hadn’t eaten any of his lunch.

“ _Dean... Dean..._ ” The voice, however, was strong and raw, almost as if it was coming from inside the walls, spread all around the room.

Dean eventually decided to open his eyes and ask whoever was talking to speak clearer.

He found the half lit hospital room drawn in silence, no one was in there except him. Sam wasn’t there, nor Jimmy or any other nurse.

It wasn’t the first time he had heard that voice, loud and intimidating, but it never seemed as real. So real he had involuntarily allowed himself to hope it was his brother who was talking to him. But it wasn’t him. It was no one, as far as Dean knew.

Since the night Dean had been sent to the hospital, Sam still hadn’t shown up. Jimmy told him he had come to visit when Dean was asleep a few times, but Dean was pretty positive it was a lie Jimmy said out of the goodness of his heart and because he, without a doubt, pitied Dean, with his illness and his loneliness.

A part of him felt that it was his fault for the situation he was in, had he told Sam sooner about his condition he might have had the time to process what was going on. But, after all, despite the anger and sadness which sometimes came crashing through his chest, a part of Dean was relieved Sam wouldn’t have to see this, that wherever he was, the Winchester curse would die with Dean.

As he settled with the idea of death and the boredom of the wait, he realized he was looking forward to hearing that voice again.

-

The first time Bobby came to visit, Dean had an oxygen tube and felt his back sweaty despite the cold chills reaching the tips of his fingers. Besides the discomfort, though, he was half asleep watching a cooking program.

He heard a knock on the open door, “come in” he said, not even turning around to check who that could be, at 2 pm it couldn’t be anyone who mattered.

“Crap and they told me you were getting better, son”

Dean almost hurt his neck as he shifted on the bed, immediately recognizing Bobby’s voice.

“Bobby -“ he didn’t know what to say, Bobby was holding his hat with both hands and smiling faintly, it looked like he hadn’t slept much lately

“It’s nice to see you. Well, not so nice to be honest. Not in these circumstances.”

“Did Sam call you?”

“Yeah, but it took him a while to pick up the phone. Damn it Dean, knew something was up with you lately but I thought it was just a — a head thing.”

Dean had tried to open up to Bobby about his mental health once or twice after being asked repeatedly by the man who was more of a father than his own father, but Bobby didn’t get what words like depression or panic attacks meant, let alone more specific diagnoses. But he understood, yes, Bobby understood everything; silently nodding and placing a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean thought that, maybe, he would understand even this.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I didn’t know how.”

Dean was honest, for days the thought of Bobby had been creeping at the back of his mind, aware this wasn’t something he could avoid telling him, not a wound that could heal or a problem that could be fixed without bothering him.

He was expecting a burst of anger, sharp words and hurt flooding the hospital floor, instead, Bobby sat at the feet of the bed and asked: “How are you?”

Dean, who wasn’t exactly at his most stable point, felt tears pricking his eyes.

“My lungs are pretty fucked up, and I’ve had a few stomach problems. Some days I have a hard time breathing that’s why they’re keeping me here, but apparently I might be going home soon.”

“As soon as they let you out you can come stay at my place, if you want.”

“Is Sam not - but then he was hit with realization - he moved out, hasn’t he?”

Sam always wanted more than what they had: a degree, a career as a lawyer, a stable relationship, but, above all, space, agency. After their father died, though, they had found each other again, both in terrible need for some help, some comfort. So they had decided to permanently move out of Jersey to New York. It was only temporary, Sam had felt the need to clarify multiple times, yet years had passed and neither of them, until that moment, had shown any intention to find another place to live.

“Look Dean, I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent on the phone trying to make him come back to his senses, he says he can’t stay and I guaranteed him he’s gonna regret it, but he’ll come back, he always does, we know him and he’ll have a lot of expiation to do then.”

Dean nodded, trying not to break right in front of Bobby, but the image of the empty apartment waiting for him once he was finally free to go back home was so overwhelming that he could feel his hands shaking underneath the sheets.

Bobby must have seen how hardly Dean was struggling to keep it together since he got up to sit closer to Dean’s chest, as the young man quickly wiped a tear away from his cheek.

“I’m serious son, you know you’re always welcome. It’s quite lonely back in Jersey, I would like some company.”

Dean’s throat was tight, but he whispered: “This is bad Bobby, I would be more trouble than you think. I can’t ask you this.”

“You didn’t ask, I’m the one who’s asking. It’s not like I haven’t seen worse anyway.”

The kind of unfaltering love Bobby was once again offering him left Dean unable to say anything for a while.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“Come here,” Bobby said, opening his arms. Dean couldn’t go far, but he still got up as much as he managed to bury himself in Bobby’s hug.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was touched by someone he loved, the last time he was held and reassured. And once the tears became too many to hide, Bobby didn’t shy away from the embrace, but remained firm, strong. So Dean relaxed, exhaling for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. As he was shaken by the sobs he’d been holding for so long, he could hear Bobby murmur: “It’s alright, boy. You’ll be alright.”

And it was a lie, they both were aware, but what was a small, fragile lie to the enormity of the darkness they were stepping into?

-

Dean didn’t remember falling asleep, but it didn’t take him long to figure out he couldn’t be awake either. He was in his hospital room, which at that point had become the setting to most of his dreams. He was sitting straight, straighter than he could manage with the oxygen tube. He blinked and in a second something magnificent and barely conceivable was standing right in front of his bed. A huge set of wings were occupying most of the room, which seemingly belonged to his nurse Jimmy, or at least _something_ that had his face and his body.

Dean felt the sharp stab of fear on the back of his neck, but mostly he was enthralled.

“Look, I’m not really the religious type, but I must ask... are you an angel? Am I dreaming of my nurse as an angel?” He eventually gathered the courage to ask.

There was a distinctively stronger glow around the man, though, even ignoring the wings. A solemn look which had little to do with Jimmy’s kind eyes.

“My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Well, Cas- Castiel. What do you want from me?” Dean decided to play along.

“I’m here to raise you from perdition.” There was no hardness in his voice as he said that, on the contrary, he seemed rather content, blissful.

“Fuck’s sake, what is this? Self-inflicted conversion therapy?”

Castiel’s face remained still, a frown barely visible.

“You misunderstand me, I’m utterly indifferent to sexual orientation. So is Heaven.”

“Oh, that’s nice to hear, - Dean laughed - now, what is it? Why am I dreaming of you? Why do you look like Jimmy? Is it an angel kink I didn’t know I had?”

“This is just a vessel. Jimmy Novak is a devout man and you seemed to be quite fond of him. It would be inconvenient to show myself to you in my true form.”

“Man this new drug they gave me —“

“We don’t have much time.”

“Time for what?”

“There is a message I, I, I must deliver. A mission from above.”

The vision before Dean’s eyes started to flicker.

“My time is up. I will return.”

“No, no, no. Hold on, when you will return — will I die?” Dean couldn’t quite believe what he was asking it, but it just came to him before he could stop it, a new, untamable fear.

“There’s no death involved in your mission, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was gentle, his blue eyes that proudly sparkled under his long lashes were framed by kind eyebrows, Jimmy’s, and Dean felt a warmth he had grown more and more unfamiliar with those last few months. “You are a prophet.”

-

When Sam arrived at the café, Benny was already seated with a cup in his hands and one on the table for the empty seat in front of him.

“You’re late.” He said.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“I was about to leave.” Sam knew Benny’s resentment had little to do with the ten minutes Sam had kept him waiting.

“I had left my wallet at home so I had to go back.”

“Home? Where exactly is your home right now?”

“You said we wouldn’t talk about Dean.”

“I’m not talking about Dean, I’m talking about you.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Right.”

“You know Sam, it just came to me that if both you and Dean are off limit topics we don’t have much to talk about.”

“How’s work?”

“Sad and ordinary, like every diner in Brooklyn should be.”

Sam nodded.

“So, old flame or a new girl? Who’s taken you in?”

“Neither.” Sam looked out the window.

“Impossible. You don’t have friends that I don’t know, so it must be a girl.”

“I found a new church, had my virginity restored. There’s no girl.”

“Hold on, you what?” asked Benny, after he almost choked on his coffee.

“I joined a support group, but to do so you needed to be a virgin.”

Benny tried not to laugh, but miserably failed.

“How many support groups are you a part of, Sam?”

“Just three now.” He shrugged.

“Just three…”

“They keep me grounded.”

“Oh so that’s what all this is about?”

“No. Maybe. Look, we are living through extremely difficult and distressing times, a bit of comfort from above can’t hurt.”

“Are you clean?”

Sam sighed, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.

“I am. — I, I’ve been thinking about the endless cycle of suffering my family has been subjected to, you know. From our grandparents, through our mother dying at thirty and our father at, what? 55? Hell, I don’t remember. And now Dean. So I’m wondering, what if there is a meaning, something that yet escapes us? What if it was always my destiny to overcome all of God’s trials? Maybe my faith is being tested. There must be a meaning, there must be. So I’m persisting.”

“Persisting?”

“Yes, my faith is unshakable. Faith in what? You may wonder; I don’t know, not yet. That there is a righteous path and that I’m on it, maybe, that like Jacob and Esau, Dean and I will eventually find our way back to each other and that I am not just a heartless bastard who’s leaving his brother to die in a hospital bed.”

“Well,”

“There is so much corruption in the world these days; sin and evil mix in with our blood and we try to be holy and faithful, but the truth is that we have a soulless president who talks about _the spirit of America_ , but what spirit? There are no gods here, no ghosts and spirits in America, there are no angels in America, no spiritual past, no racial past, there’s only the political. So I guess it’s up to us to stand up to adversities and, even when God isn’t listening, try to search for His word everywhere. If I can’t endure Dean’s illness maybe I can endure the penance He will subject me to once he gets my prayers.”

“How about you get your shit together and go visit you brother instead?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh shut up, Sam. I’m sitting here and telling myself, eventually he’s gotta run out of hysterical, religious-fanatic, borderline homophobic and racist arguments, right? But at this point I’m not sure you are. Shit like this is not easy to handle, I’ll give you that. Dean is not the first friend who gets it and I’ve seen what it does to the people around them, rarely it’s noble and brave. It’s okay to be scared, Sam. What’s not okay is to turn your back on the one person who has loved you unconditionally your whole life and hide behind some piss poor stories about an absent God who is silently imparting you a lesson. –“

“The Bible –”

“Let me finish. – Benny almost yelled – Who cares? Who gives a shit about what God wants for you? Your brother might be six feet down under in a few months and, believe me, once this religious mania will be over you will have nothing to hang on but your guilt.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t.”

Sam’s voice was shaking violently and, for a moment, Benny’s look softened.

“So what’s the plan? You stay away, busy with your virginity project, until a miracle happens and Dean is healed?”

“It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, thought you might say that.”

Said Benny with a smile, picking up his coat from the seat next to him.

Before they left the café, Sam asked: “How is he?”

“Why don’t you go see that for yourself?”

“I’m dying.”

“No, -- Benny shook his head, as he finished to button up is coat – _he’s_ dying. You just wish you were.”

-

Ever since Dean could remember Charlie was always in a rush, carrying half open bags and eating lunch on her way to practically anywhere. When she entered Dean’s room, she was drinking from a large cup full of green liquid.

“I’m on a new diet.” She said, as soon as Dean raised his eyebrows. “It’s good for, uh, developing muscles?”

Dean laughed, shaking his head.

“Alright, let’s see. - she said, scrutinizing him, the straw still in her mouth - You look like shit.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“I doubt that. - she shrugged, taking a seat in the chair at the side of Dean’s bed and crossing her legs - You seem shaken. Anything interesting happened? Prodigal son came home?”

“No, of course not. But, I had a breathing crisis first thing in the morning, Bobby came to visit and then I had a very vivid, very crazy, dream. Except for that, just the casual breakdowns over soap operas and voice hearing.”

“Hold on, - Charlie said as she loudly opened a bag of chips, her green shake abandoned on the floor - you’re hearing voices?”

“A voice.”

“What does it say?”

“I know it sounds mental, but I can’t tell you.”

“Then you tell the doctor or I will.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. I love the voice, and the dreams too. If you tell him, they’ll change the drug just to spoil the fun.”

“Maybe it’s not the drugs, maybe it’s from all the stress of these weeks. How long have you been here?”

“A week? Two? Who cares?”

“This is not good.”

“Well, my mental well-being doesn’t seem particularly high up on the priority list at the moment.”

“A psychotic break won’t help your physical health either. It’s surely the drugs, though.”

Dean shrugged.

“How did it go with Bobby? Are you alright?”

“As well as it could go, I guess. He was — calmer than I expected. And, you know, he didn’t ask any questions about —“

“Dean, - and then Charlie’s voice was softer, no more irony or firmness - you shouldn’t worry about this right now, to be fair, you could say this whole situation sort of cancelled out the need for a coming out.”

Dean chuckled, most of all for Charlie’s intricate eyebrows movements than for the comfort of her words.

“They could still think I got it from a prostitute, I heard it happens sometimes. — Or that I’m a junkie. Lots of marvelous options. Although no one seems mad, which I assume leaves only one option out. Should I feel relieved? I do feel relieve, to an extent.”

Charlie smiled again, more sincerely this time. “See, that’s good. Now, tell me, what about the dreams and the voice? What’s so charming about them? Do they turn you on?”

Her smile slowly faded from her face as Dean remained silent, his cheeks flushed.

“No way! — she cried, a hand on her mouth — Girl, you are unhinged. But, as your dearest friend, I have just made the conscious decision of preserving this source of erotic satisfaction for you. I won’t tell the doctor.”

“Dude, you’re gonna have to never say that again. – Dean laughed, shaking his head -- But thank you, I appreciate that.”

Charlie looked at the watch on her wrist and said: “Lunch break is over I’m afraid, darling. If I want to spend my whole life looking after sad lonely men I can at least get underpaid to do it.”

“Jesus had flaming red hair and a weird obsession with the Lord of the Rings, I’m sure.”

She gently kissed him on his forehead. “Please, please. Don’t go crazy on me. — Damn, why did they have to pick on you?”

But in a moment her smile was back, “and eat more, bestie, you really do look like shit.”

“I promise.” Dean answered before she walked out the door, not entirely sure of what he was promising.

A new spiral of conflicting and equally strong emotions were lurking all around the room and threatening to calamitously fall on his chest.

His breakdown was, however, put on hold once Jimmy walked inside the room without knocking, a firmness in his step Dead didn’t quite recognize.

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you this early.” Dean commented.

But as the nurse looked up, his eyes were bright blue, like a neon sign in the night, making it impossible for Dean to keep eye-contact.

“What? - Is this?”

“I’m not your nurse.” Castiel’s eyes went back to the normal, quiet, blue Dean had come to know very well.

“Yeah I figured that. — Am I still dreaming? It doesn’t feel…”

“This isn’t a dream. Jimmy’s body will serve as my vessel from now on. It will make things — smoother.”

“Wait, you can’t do that! What about Jimmy?”

“Jimmy has agreed. As I previously told you, he is a devout man.”

“Screw that, he surely didn’t know what he was doing, plus he has a daughter. What about her?”

Castiel laughed, a clean, weightless sound.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asked, the comfort and pleasantness of Castiel’s previous visits partly gone.

“An angel has walked into your miserable hospital room to inform you of the great mission Heaven has chosen you for and you worry about Jimmy Novak’s teenage daughter. You really are a righteous man.”

“Is that what they say about me up there?”

“Indeed. Prophets sometimes are.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not righteous and most certainly I’m not a prophet. Find someone else. Someone who is not dying – or losing their mind.”  
Castiel’s brows arched in a kind look, Jimmy hiding somewhere underneath the angelic withholding of his being.

“What’s the matter? – he paused, inclining his head to the left in a sign of sudden realization -- You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

“Saved how? – Dean could feel frustration tightening his throat – Can you even fix me?”

Castiel walked towards the window, looking away from Dean.

“I’m afraid I can’t do much about your body. Your soul, however, is saved. I can assure you that in the grand scheme of things this has a much deeper value.”

“Then how am I supposed to accomplish whatever mission I was chosen for if I’m stuck in this hospital bed?”

“This is not of your concern. There is a book. A book of prophecy. It awaits in your apartment, look under the tiles below the sink. Once you find it, call for me, I’ll be there.”

Dean opened his mouth to answer but Castiel was gone, leaving nothing but a pale glow in the air.

-

Once he reached the entrance to the MacLeod’s Bookshop, Sam unclenched his fists for the first time since he had gotten out of the train. _Witchcraft and esoterism_ , he read as his breath quickened. He had wrestled with his conscience the whole way there. To stand in front of that shop window felt sinful, but what’s another sin to Cain, right? Besides, the actual reason why he was looking through the pockets of his old jackets was to find a distraction of a different sort and it was by total chance that he had stumbled across a note with an address and a phone number scribbled in Jess’ handwriting, his girlfriend from college. Sam barely remembered what it was about, but still decided to take it as a sign to remain on a vaguely right path and not subside to his demons.

It only took a few steps inside the shop for Sam to feel drowned in a strong smell of incense and old paper. The radio was playing a song he remembered his father hated and light barely came through the heavy curtains. Instinctively, Sam dried his palms against his jeans, predicting a handshake of some sort. The woman who walked towards him, with flaming hair and sharp features, however, merely raised her chin in salutation.

“Oh, hello there. – the woman said, in a stark Scottish accent – It’s Sam, right? Samuel, I assume.”

“Sam is fine.”

She nodded, gesturing him to follow her to the back of the shop.

The room they entered was even darker, only lightened by a handful of candles, with a circular table standing in the middle.

“Hands on the table, please.” She asked, as they both sat one in front of the other.

“Tell me, what are you seeking? Revelation, guidance or answers? Or maybe comfort, yours are nervous hands, I see.”

“My brother –”

“Is sick. – she interrupted him, her mouth twitching – Oh, poor, poor boy. To die at thirty, and a beauty like him, may I add. A tragedy.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Samuel. I know a lot more than that. What I still don’t know is what you really want from me. So, go ahead, don’t be afraid to ask.”

Sam took a deep breath before he started to speak, “When I was only six months old my mother was burnt in a terrible housefire and my father was left to raise my brother Dean and I. He was an angry man, consumed by grief and regret, overworked and dissatisfied with anything in his life. A strong tendency towards alcoholism and – well, I guess you know that already. Anyway, Dean was everything to me, he cooked my meals and washed my clothes, dressed me up for school and – protected me not just from our father, but from life. That kind of love was, uh, overwhelming, so when I started to feel crushed, I ran away. I made a lot of mistakes, almost thrown my life away a few times. But, you see, Dean was always there. Not once he flickered or wavered, ever since I can remember. And all of a sudden he is coughing blood on the floor, laying on a hospital bed, barely alive. -- After all the suffering I have brought him, all I feel like doing is bringing him more. I prayed God to guide me through, to either enlighten my path or show me a better way, but His silence has led me here, which I guess is still better than a stranger’s car. I’m begging you to tell me what to do. Just, please, tell me what to do.”

Rowena had listened to Sam’s words with an amused look on her face, shuffling a deck of cards that seemed consumed by time and usage, the corners of each card smoothed and the colors of the images pale.

“I’ll read you your cards, see what they have to say on the matter. Ultimately, however, no divine entity or downtown witch will be the one to make a decision. You will.”

Sam recognized Rowena’s technique as she laid the cards on the table, it was the Celtic cross, he remembered one of his friends from college doing a reading in his room once.

It didn’t last long, Rowena was able to strike at the core of Sam’s self-doubt a couple of times and at one point he even felt like he was about to cry, right there, in front of a perfect stranger. In the end, however, Sam couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Is this all? Don’t get me wrong, you were really, really good, but you barely mentioned my brother, how is that possible?”

“This is about you, Samuel. Not your brother.” She answered plainly, a steady smile on her red lips.

“Your unhealthy, trauma-induced, codependency is exactly what is holding you back. You find a way to disentangle yourself from the position of younger brother you’ve had to occupy your whole life and, maybe, you will be able to face the atrocity of Dean’s illness as a man and not as a scared little boy. Dean’s battle is his own, though. You’ve got your own to fight and these were _your_ cards.”

Sam felt the beginning of a headache sting his right temple. “I see, well then I must get to work. This has been – enlightening.”

Before Sam could draw back his hand from the table, Rowen softly touched his wrist. Her white neck shined against the trembling flames of the candles as she inclined her head.

“Should you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me. _Anything_.”

“Anything…” Sam whispered, suddenly enwrapped in the thick fog of desire.

Walking away from the shop felt like slowly waking up from a dream. He whispered to himself, “Oh God, I want to fuck a witch.”

-

It was Dean’s first day back home, Benny had been gone for a couple of hours and he was watching Family Ties on his couch when it happened.

It all started with a wheezing sound all around the apartment, then the lights in the living room started to flicker, of course the lights started to flicker. Dean tried to brush it off, after all it was an old building and his legs were hurting. No one was going to come. But then the TV in Sam’s room turned itself on at full volume just for the apartment to fall into silence in a few seconds, making Dean’s skin crawl.

There was a reason his legs hurt so much; when Benny had left, urging him not to do anything stupid, Dean had proceeded to sit on the kitchen floor with a hammer in his hands, trying to break the tiles under the sink, looking for the damn book Castiel was so anxious for him to find. And he did find it. An old, dusty, leather book, with its pages blank and torn. So he called for him, like Castiel had asked him, with an obedience he couldn’t quite understand, but also couldn’t help. Castiel, however, didn’t show. Eventually he had gotten tired of standing up, trying to find comfort in the idea that perhaps it was all a massive drugs-induced hallucination. That maybe he had always known about a strange book buried under his kitchen tiles.

Only when flashes of purple light began to intermittently lighten the otherwise dark living room, he felt hope, like an overflowing river, wipe away resignation or fear. He heard a beat and then a final shower of unearthly white light as Castiel appeared in his room, spreading his wings wider, wall to wall, just like the first he had seen him in his dream. Jimmy’s features glowing fiercely, bathed in holiness.

“Greetings, Prophet.”

Dean chuckled, trying to mask the sense of reverence he felt creeping up his throat.

“Prophet? Oh come on, Cas. I thought we were on first-name terms at this point.”

Castiel lowered his chin, his eyes back to Jimmy’s dark shade of blue and his wings fading first into shadows, then disappearing.

“That’s – protocol.” He admitted awkwardly. “Apologies for the inconvenience.”

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“Yeah, sorry about that too. I had to persuade the other angels to send me and not somebody else.”

“Why would they want to send somebody else?”

Castiel remained still. “They think I’m growing too fond of you.”

_Are you?_ Dean barely managed to keep himself from asking. Desire twisting on his tongue as he masterfully said: “Lucky me, huh.”

“Now, about the book. What am I supposed to do with that? The pages are blank.”

Cas walked towards the table where Dean had left the book. As soon as he gently touched it, light began to pour out of it and in a moment it was open, pages filled with dark red words.

Dean got closer to the book, words were crowding his mind and his heart, submerging him in the impenetrable fog of revelation.

Castiel’s voice echoed in the stillness of the scene:

“The Great Work Begins.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so, this is bad. Like, objectively. It started pretty much as a joke but I always end up taking myself way too seriously, so here we are. Angels in America is my favorite play and probably one of my favorite works of fiction in general, so you’d think I’d never dare to do a rewriting of it, but also I’m an arrogant little bastard, hence why I have decided not only to write this for my own entertainment, but to upload it too.  
> This is just loosely based on Angels in America though, I took some of its themes and dynamics + some incredible quotes I couldn’t avoid inserting in the text.  
> Disclaimer: I was raised catholic and unfortunately I am barely acquainted to Catholicism, therefore I decided to drop both the Jewish and Mormon aspects of the plot, which is a shame because they essentially are what makes the play so incredible. I intend to educate myself more on both religions, but in the meantime I thought it would be more respectful not to bullshit my way through it.  
> Said that, there’s probably tons of inaccuracies, so please don’t take this thing too seriously, alas I’m no Tony Kushner, but a sad 21 year old who got into Supernatural in 2020. Second part will hopefully follow in the next weeks. Hope you enjoy.  
> P.s.: there’s no Roy Cohn plot because I had no idea how to make it work with Supernatural :D  
> P.p.s.: I did parallel Sam and Dean with Louis and Prior, but there is absolutely no romantic intention, hope I made that clear in the story, but I felt like specifying it, just in case. W*ncesties DNI.


End file.
